The Ghosts of Fawlty Towers
by The Grey Piper
Summary: Basil and Sybil seem to have always been unhappy. Is it just their marriage, or are there dark secrets in their lives, wounds that even time can't heal? WARNING: this is not a funny story! [Sorry, wouldn't format right after 2 attempts, so sections headi


The Ghosts of Fawlty Towers

Sybil Fawlty stood in the drive in front of Fawlty Towers. She looked up

uneasily at the iron-grey of a mid-autumn sky and lit a cigarette. She

inhaled deeply, greedily, before releasing the puff in a lazy swirl. Audrey

would be along soon to pick her up.

Afternoons with Audrey, and the occasional golf outing, had become routine

in Sybil's two years in Torquay, as proprietress of Fawlty Towers. Basil

was busy with tradesmen today; her absence would be unnoticed, her business

would remain private. At least until she chose to make it otherwise. Maybe

that would be tonight. The thought made her apprehensive.

She crushed the cigarette under her toe. Audrey appeared, and Sybil

vanished.

Much later that night, Basil and Sybil Fawlty lay in bed. A single small

bulb under a reddish-pink lampshade bathed the bedroom in intimate warmth.

Cigarettes burned in ashtrays on either side of the bed. Sybil snuggled her

head against Basil's side, one arm stretched across his chest and draped on

his shoulder. A faint smile persisted on her lips.

'Thank you, Basil,' she murmured. Basil smiled down at his wife.

'My pleasure,' was his customary response.

He wriggled his shoulders against the pillows, and worked his way further

down under the bedclothes. 'Getting chilly.'

Sybil gathered her nerve, steeling herself for whatever reaction her

sometimes volatile husband might show.

'Basil,' she cooed. 'Are you sure you want children?'

'Well . . . yes.'

'Basil, you once said that you wouldn't mind if we did. Have a baby, I

mean. Don't you feel any more definite about it -- about a child? When you

say you don't mind, you make it sound like I was getting a new hair-do. I'd

like to think you really want to have a baby and raise a family.'

Basil stubbed out his cigarette. 'Well. Well, yes. Of course dear.'

Basil thought frantically for the right words. Sybil was obviously in one

of her odd moods, and he didn't want to start her on a crying jag.Why did

she fret so? A baby was just one of those things that happened. No point

in discussing timetables. 'I've thought it would be nice, it would be

right, to have a young Basil Fawlty someday to pick up the torch when I'm --

gone -- to carry on Fawlty Towers.' Basil suddenly did have a vision --

Fawlty & Son, Ltd., hotels up and down the coast of Britain, a famous resort

chain. Fawlty Towers would be mentioned in the same breath as The

Dorchester, or The Hilton. 'Of course I do, my love.'

'But -- we are trying aren't we? Aren't you?' Sybil realised how plaintive

and meaningless her question sounded. Still, her fingers stretched under

the sheets, touching him intimately, as if suspecting a surreptitious

sheath.

Basil responded quickly and automatically to her touch. Sybil, in turn,

found herself aroused by his reaction. It always made her heart flutter to

find that she could do that to him so easily.

'There's only so much I can do, my love . . .'

Sybil bit her lip, stopping a chuckle. She remembered a bawdy witticism of

her father's: 'Once a king, always a king, but once a knight is enough.'

She smiled inwardly only, recalling both the statement and how shocked she

had been to hear her own father say such a thing.

' . . .and Mother Nature has to do the rest.'

It's time, thought Sybil. 'Basil, I saw a doctor today.' Basil's head spun

around in alarm. 'I want to be sure there's nothing wrong. With me, I

mean. I'm sure nothing's wrong with you.' I'm sure there isn't, thought

Sybil. But a deep, dark corner of her psyche whispered up from its abyss,

But please let it be him. Not me. Let it be Basil's fault.

Basil frowned. 'That's not -- Not a private doctor, was it?'

Sybil felt a moment's spite. You bastard, the first thing you worry about

is the money. 'Yes, but it's all right Basil. I paid for it out of Daddy's

trust money. That's what he left it to me for, you know.' That too, Sybil

thought. Dear Daddy. Dear dead Daddy. Not that he'd disliked or

mistrusted Basil. But he'd wanted to be sure Sybil had the money to make a

midnight departure if it were ever necessary, after she had no living family

to turn to. Basil knew about the money, but he had never suspected the real

reason Daddy had left it.

'Sybil.'

'Yes Basil.'

'Whatever's necessary. I'm with you. All the way. Whatever can be done.'

Sybil felt like she had been holding her breath for the last five minutes.

She exhaled with almost a gasp, and realised her hands were trembling. She

rolled, and pressed her face against his chest, softly kissed him there, one

arm again stretching across to his opposite shoulder. Soon, that arm

slipped down, and her fingers touched off the same responses they had

earlier. Neither Sybil nor Basil resisted this time.

A few minutes later, Sybil was smiling dreamily. Maybe, sometimes, once a

knight isn't enough, she was able to think.

One week later, Sybil Fawlty sat again in Dr Tashdid's office. He was tall,

almost as tall as Basil, Sybil thought, just slightly darker, and quite

good-looking in an exotic way. He wore a small moustache, curled at the

ends, like a flattened 'w'.

'Everything I've run so far looks perfectly normal, Mrs Fawlty. We have

only a few options left open. I would suggest Mr Fawlty also be examined,

as there are sometimes issues of mutual incompatibility, even if you are

certain he has no other, err, problems. Finally, there is one last battery

of tests I can offer you -- I usually would not suggest -- no never mind,

let me schedule you for some last little testing next Wednesday. One

moment, please, Mrs Fawlty. Ayesha!' Dr Tashdid turned to his receptionist.

He conferred quietly with the attractive young lady. She jotted the

appointment on a business card, along with the name of another doctor, and

handed it to Sybil.

'There you are, Mrs Fawlty,' Ayesha said, and flashed a dazzling smile.

'Thank you,' said Sybil taking the card, without looking at it, without

understanding.

'Basil, the doctor thinks you should be examined as well.'

'And when am I supposed to do that? The hotel doesn't run itself, you know.

It's too much for you, Elsie can barely make up a bedroom without looking at

the directions, and Manuel --' Basil's hands clenched and relaxed a few

times at the thought of Manuel.

'Basil. You've promised this to me,' Sybil pleaded. She thought that might

be stretching the truth just a bit. Still, he had to go in. Maybe there

was something wrong with him, or between them. And again, that carefully

buried cry from far below Sybil's consciousness -- It has to be him. Or us.

Not me. Not me.

A week later, Basil sat in the waiting room of Dr Khatmal. It was a rather

shabby NHS facility, tucked away in one of Torquay's backstreets. He had

been waiting half an hour already. There were no other patients. Thank God

for that, anyway, thought Basil. Wouldn't do to be seen at the waterworks

doctor. He looked irritably around the room.

A single newspaper lay on the table. Basil picked it up, and flicked

through the pages. His irritability rose; he could not read a word of it.

Arabic, he thought, wrongly, as it happened. He tossed the paper back on

the table. His eyes wandered around the room again.

A clock ticked off the minutes behind the empty receptionist's desk. A

photograph hung in a frame beside the desk. It was a cityscape, shot from a

harbour. Exotic-looking fishing boats occupied the foreground, and a vivid

crescent moon hung in the sky over a large, domed building. 'Karachi at

Dusk' was the title printed in the bottom border. He sat back down.

Another half hour ticked grimly by, and a middle-aged woman with a tall

hair-do and dowdy dress entered, and sat behind the desk. She examined a

pad of paper on the desk, and only then looked up and acknowledged Basil

Fawlty's presence.

'Fawlty?' she asked, in a voice of boredom.

'I hope not.'

The bored lady's eyebrows arched at him, telling him wordlessly that she had

already heard much better quips here, had heard it all, in fact, and he

needn't try any further getting a rise out of her. Hers were very

expressive eyebrows.

'Sorry, yes, Basil Fawlty.'

'The doctor will be with you shortly, Mr Fawlty.' With that, she rose,

disappeared behind a door marked 'Staff Only', only to return a moment later

and reposition herself behind the desk. Her presence made the waiting room

seem not only grim, but drab as well.

Moments later, Dr Khatmal popped out from behind the 'Staff Only' door. He

was shortish and cherubically plump, with a round face bearing gold-framed

glasses. The crisply white lab coat made his skin seem even darker than it

was. He flashed a smile that was as brightly white as his lab coat. Basil

immediately disliked him

'I say, dreadfully sorry there, Mr Fawlty, for the long delay; up against a

blasted deadline for some paperwork I just had to get done for the Inland

Revenue, then had to take the old overseas call on the telephone. Big

conference coming up in Holland next month, and had to get things squared

away.'

Basil blinked. The doctor was speaking perfect, idiomatic, upper-class,

British English. The most English English a man could speak outside of

Windsor Castle. Basil's irritation rose.

'Come along with me, Mr Fawlty, and we'll have a little chat in the exam

room.'

Basil followed obediently, and sat in a surprisingly comfortable armchair.

He was very glad the chair was comfortable, as the doctor's questions were

making him most uncomfortable. Not unexpected, if he had thought about it a

little more beforehand: Any sort of trouble . . . ? How often do you . . .

? Ever have to . . . ? Ever notice that you . . . ? Even once in a while

Basil sensed that his face was burning red. Finally the interrogation

stopped.

'Fine, fine, Mr Fawlty. Stand up now please.'

Basil stood.

'If I could perform just a quick examination . . . .'

Basil winced. He knew that this would be part of it sooner or later.

Still, it was with great reluctance that he loosened and lowered his

trousers and shorts. He stared straight ahead at a random point on the

wall.

'Mmm. Mmm-Hmm. Hmm.' opined Dr Khatmal.

Basil had not felt so utterly humiliated since being in the services, when

such intimate examinations were performed en masse by Royal Army surgeons.

At least, thought Basil, I'm not standing like this with a hundred other

poor sods.

'Jolly good, jolly good. Go ahead, put yourself back together, and there's

just one more thing.' Dr Khatmal stepped out of the room. Basil quickly

re-clothed himself and followed.

The doctor was in the waiting area, about to speak to the drab receptionist.

He turned at the sound of Basil opening the door behind him. 'So sorry

again, Mr Fawlty, I should have said you could stay where you were. Ah yes,

Miss Hicks, a collection tube for Mr Fawlty, please.'

The receptionist opened a cabinet door, and extracted a suggestively-shaped

plastic container. She stood, looked Basil dead in the eyes, and placed it

in his hand. Her drabness was illuminated for a moment with a look of

wicked glee in her eyes.

With horror, Basil realised what the container was, and what was expected of

him. The doctor blinked at him innocently, the receptionist with barely

concealed amusement. Her expressive eyebrows seemed to say, No matter what,

I always have the last laugh.

Basil knew his face was again red with outrage and shame. 'I think not, old

chap,' he said to Dr Khatmal. He dropped the container on the floor, and

marched straight out the door, back straight, eyes front.

He collapsed in the driver's seat of his new red Austin, and sat for a

moment, controlling his fury. Never in my life! he thought. Criminally

indecent, that. Shaking his head, Basil fired up the Austin, and began a

slow, roundabout way back to the hotel.

Nothing wrong with me, Basil thought, I know that. I know it. And a face

floated into his memory, a ghost long exorcised, returned to haunt him. A

face framed in straight black hair, and highlighted by the most beautiful,

classical, almond-shaped eyes. Lin Yo. The name belonging to the face.

And another name, another place. Korea.

A cook in the catering corp, young Basil Fawlty had been attached to a unit

stationed near Seoul for most of the war, an easy position in many ways.

And there was Lin Yo, a farm girl from the countryside, who visited once a

week or so to sell the Royal Army her cabbages, rice, eggs, whatever her

family had managed to scrape from the soil recently. Basil had gotten

quickly used to her visits, and along with a few shillings, usually gave her

a few extra things the Army had too much of -- clothing, chewing gum,

cigarettes, gin. Her visits grew more frequent. Often she had no food for

sale, and she didn't mind it when Basil had nothing to give her. She seemed

happy just to talk and visit with him. The two began to take walks in the

countryside around the compound. There were fields of weeds grown waist

high, a small river and river bank, and even a patch of forest. There was

also the danger of land mines, even here, but that seemed unreal, and the

lurking danger only added to the thrill of their excursions.

Late one afternoon in the waist-high weed fields, it happened. Lin Yo sat

down to rest her feet, Basil sat beside her. They leaned against each

other, back to back. The war was not far away, but it was not here. Hands

met, arms entwined, and soon Basil was kissing her passionately. He was

barely into his twenties, and had never kissed a girl before, not like that,

at least. It occurred to him that he had no idea how old Lin Yo was, but

didn't think she could more than fourteen or fifteen. He kept kissing her,

and she returned his kisses fiercely, almost desperately.

Lin Yo's hands pulled at him, at his shirt, his trousers. Before he

realised it, he was half naked in the weeds, and so was Lin Yo. I'm

dreaming, he thought. This can't be happening. His sense of reality fell

away, as did the rest of their clothing. My first time, he thought, I hope

I don't bungle it. He was, he realised later, clumsy and quick. Lin Yo

didn't seem to mind. He was never sure if it was her first time as well.

For some reason, he thought not. When he walked back into the barracks that night, he was laughing all the way to bed.

Lin Yo still visited regularly with her farm goods. Their private walks

became less frequent and more discreet. Basil learned how better to please

her, and became rather proud of himself. So they carried on through the

spring, and into the summer.

One Sunday morning, Lin Yo appeared with her cart at the mess tent. She

poked her head through the flap, saw Basil, and smiled. To Basil, it was

like the sun had risen again. 'Ba-so,' she called softly. He strutted out

of the tent.

'Good morning, little darling,' said Basil Fawlty. 'What do you have for

hungry British soldiers today?' Businesslike, he examined the contents of

her cart.

She looked up at him shyly, and said, 'I have something very special today,

just for my Ba-so.'

Basil smiled. 'Nice bunch of eggs? Extra big cabbage?'

Lin Yo reached out and took his hand between hers, and kissed it. Then she

moved it and placed it on her stomach. 'I have baby for my Ba-so.'

Basil Fawlty nearly fainted on the spot. He had heard the expression

'thunderstruck' before, but never truly appreciated it. He did now. He was

thunderstruck. The reality he had lost touch with that first evening in the

meadow came roaring back with a vengeance. How monumentally stupid I've

been, he thought. This was inevitable. This is why the corpsman's tent has

that big box of little foil packets. I never even considered . . . .

Basil fumbled in his pockets, pulled out a handful of coins: shillings,

sixpencees, American coins, Korean coins. He thrust it all at her. 'Here,

love, take this all for the groceries now, we'll talk about your -- about

the -- we'll talk later, OK? Taggart!' He called for Corporal Taggart to

haul in the assortment from Lin Yo's cart. 'Not a word to anyone,

understand? Don't tell anyone else. The Army can be a bit . . . funny . .

. about girls with babies and soldiers, right? Off you go, I'll meet you

tomorrow.'

Basil was a man of his word. He met Lin Yo at one of their usual spots the

next day. Lin Yo was very sure of herself, and knew just what needed to be

done. 'Ba-so, we get marry here, then when war is over, you take me home to

England. Unless you maybe like stay in Korea?'

'No, no, home to good old Mother England, no worries. But -- I -- I don't

think it's going to be -- that easy.'

'Why no easy?'

'Well --' Basil mind raced. He knew he liked Lin Yo -- a lot. He loved

the feel of her naked skin stretched out beneath him. He wasn't sure he

loved her. Besides -- even if he did love her, how could he actually marry

this -- Korean? I'm English, he thought. It just isn't done. Disgrace the

family, coming home with this -- this Oriental child -- with my child! That

crossed his mind too, could he even marry this girl legally? How old is

she? Basil sat on a fallen tree stump and buried his face in his hands. A

still, small, voice in the back of his head was saying, You know there's

only one right thing to do, old man. That's part of being English, too.

'I'll have a word with the C.O. -- the boss -- tomorrow. I promise, Lin Yo.

Whatever can be done.'

Lin Yo's worried features burst into a sunrise again, and she threw her arms

around him. She murmured something in his ear, in Korean. He didn't speak

a word of it, but he was afraid he knew what she had said. Maybe, he

thought, maybe I do love her after all.

Then, in the lengthening shadows of the summer sun, their passion, perhaps

even their love, swept them up, and only the forest saw.

'And that's the whole story, sir,' Basil reported to Colonel Howe. 'I want

to do right by the girl.'

Colonel Howe scowled. 'You understand, Fawlty, that fraternisation of this

sort is potentially a court-martial offence?'

Basil swallowed hard. He had suspected as much, but he didn't honestly know

it. 'Yes sir,' he stated. No point pleading ignorance.

'I admit it's commendable that you want to make an honest woman of her.

But, really, Fawlty --' The colonel leaned forward, folded his hands under

his chin in his attempt to seem a bit more paternal. He had faced this

situation more than a few times, on a number of continents. He suspected

that there might be more to Lin Yo than met the eye. 'Really, Fawlty, don't

you think there's a chance that this girl has been, ahem, peddling her

wares, shall we say, at more mess tents than yours?'

It took a moment for the colonel's implication to strike home. When it did,

Basil again was thunderstruck. Such a thing had not occurred to him,

although he knew that there were a few such girls around. He had never

given them a thought, other than to place them in the firm category of

'things to avoid'. He sat thinking. The idea that Lin Yo might be simply

another variety of tart struck him cold. She had never asked for money for

her companionship, nor any favour, except . . . .

The colonel seemed to follow his train of thought. 'All love and kisses,

right up to the big one, eh, Fawlty? 'By the way, duckie, I'm in the club,

take me home to England.'?

'It's . . . it's unthinkable, sir.'

'Always seems that, Fawlty. Believe me, I've seen it time and again. Then

they're happy with a bit of a payoff, and they go home wealthy and buy the

village. Well, Fawlty, I'm not going to permit any request of yours to go

forward until you've checked up on this girl's bony feeds a bit more

thoroughly. Dismissed, Fawlty.'

Basil walked back to his tent in shock. Icy fingers stroked his heart at

the thought he had been played for a fool. Maybe this is love, he mused.

What do I say to her though? By the way, love, you're not just another

gold-digging trollop, are you? Basil shuddered at the notion. He'd think

of something.

Basil and Lin Yo sat on a pile of firewood a little removed from the

compound. Lin Yo gazed up at him, beaming. 'The colonel told me that it

will be very difficult to let you come to England. Said may take years, and

not until war is over. Said I can't stay in Korea after war. If -- if I

must go home, and not bring you, how much --' Basil almost choked on what he was saying. 'How much money would you need to live well with baby, here in Korea?'

Lin Yo gazed up at him, horror on her face. Her answer was visible, as

enormous tears slipped silently down her cheeks. She buried her face in the

crook of his arm. 'I no want money. Just want my Ba-so.'

Basil wrapped his gangling arms around Lin Yo's shaking body. That bastard, he thought. That vicious old bastard. Look what you've done to her, Basil silently raged at the Colonel. 'I'm sorry, I'm so terribly my -- my love.'

Basil had said it almost without realising it. Even in the deepest of their

passions, he had never uttered that word.

Lin Yo controlled her sobbing, and looked up at him again. 'You call me

your love? You really love Lin Yo?'

'Yes, of course I do, I have for a long time now, I just didn't -- know it.'

He didn't think she had comprehended that, so he spoke very simply. 'I love

you, Lin Yo.'

'I love you too, Ba-so.' She wrapped her arms around Basil's lanky frame

and wept some more. After a few moments, she regained her composure, and said, 'Soon, you come to my home and meet family.'

My God! thought Basil. Meeting the parents! Was he expected to ask Daddy

for her hand? What did they do over here? Did they even know? Did Daddy

carry a shotgun? More likely a bushel of hand grenades. 'Do, uh, do your

parents know you're, uh, having a baby?'

'Oh of course Mama know! She tell me, how I have baby inside. That when I

know. Mama very happy.'

Basil's head swam. Was it her imperfect English usage, or was she really

that innocent? Again he wondered how old Lin Yo was. God, what have I

done? Then he remembered his own folly: he had been almost as naive. 'Is, uh, is Papa angry? Upset?'

A wistful look passed briefly across her face, then was stoic. 'We think

Papa dead,' she stated calmly. 'Last wintertime, he go to fight Commies. No

see him again. Maybe he come home soon. Maybe not.'

Two days later, Basil visited the nameless village. He was appalled.

Village? It was putting on airs to call it even that. A dozen huts

clustered around a rice paddy. About a half-acre of land was plowed up,

sprouting the selection of vegetables he had bought. A dozen or so chickens

ran loose, as did three gaunt pigs. An old man kept the animals shooed out

of the field. There were no other men in sight, only women and mostly-naked

children. Basil knew there would be no young men found here. Maybe the old man in the field was the youngest man here. Maybe here, she is an adult,

Basil thought.

Lin Yo took Basil by the hand and led him into one of the huts. The woman

inside had no age; at one glance she might have been thirty, at another,

fifty. Basil bowed deeply, he understood that much of this alien society,

so far removed from Lord's and cricket, white cliffs and mountains green,

London and Tower Bridge . He was suddenly very homesick. Mama returned his bow, very deeply. Lin Yo and Mama chatted happily.

Lin Yo said, 'Mama is very happy and proud that you give me baby.' She

giggled shyly. 'She say you very handsome man, and very good man for

husband.'

Husband! That was another word that Basil had been carefully not thinking of. Along with 'wife'. 'Tell her that you are both very beautiful. And

that -- I promise on my honour to do right by you.' Lin Yo looked puzzled

at the last, so Basil continued, 'That I be very good to you. Always.'

Lin Yo translated, Mama smiled broadly, and bowed deeply again. A few more slightly awkward pleasantries were exchanged, and Basil and Lin Yo started walking back to the compound.

'When your boss say we can go to England?'

'Well, he hasn't really said yet. I think when war is over.' Basil's

partial lie was difficult on his tongue. He had not yet been back to the

colonel to discuss the matter. There would have to be a wedding first

Wedding! Basil's mind shouted, and that required the colonel's permission.

That could be withheld indiscriminately, he knew. The colonel needed to be

convinced of course, but even then . . . . Basil had an instinct that the

colonel was a decent chap, though, and would ultimately support him. Maybe

start talking to the chaplain, too, get the Church to put in a good word for

him. This sort of situation was more up their street, Basil vaguely

suspected.

'I have to go on in now, Lin Yo. I'll talk to the colonel some more

tomorrow, I promise. You'd best get on home now.'

They swayed back and forth in each other's arms for a long while. Basil

stroked her sleek black hair, thinking again what an odd couple they would

make. The top of her head only reached halfway up his chest. He had come

to a profound realisation. 'Dear God, I love you so much, Lin Yo.'

'Love you forever, my Ba-so.'

Basil Fawlty awoke early that morning, very early, much too early, to

pandemoniac confusion. The Sergeant Major was storming through all the

barrack tents in the compound, shouting maniacally.

'Wakey wakey! Get those lazy arses in the air, you sodding sods! Come on,

move it, move it now! What do you think this is, bleeding holiday camp?

Boy Scouts fucking Jamboree? Strike the tents, strike camp! Drivers, get

those sodding lorries moving, all of them! Move now!'

Basil, along with the rest of the mess crew, responded with well-trained

alacrity. In a startling short span, the mess tent itself, along with the

equipment, was loaded in the back of two large trucks. Everywhere else, men ran frantically in the pre-dawn darkness, loading transport trucks, avoiding the blistering wrath of sergeants.

Basil jumped into the back of a personnel transport. Outside, the Sergeant

Major was still shouting.

'Get a move one, you useless bastards! Ten minutes to get this lot packed

up or I shoot you on the spot! Don't throw ammo boxes like that you

halfwit! You're here to kill Chinamen, not each other! You lot have had it

too soft here, that's your problem! We need to put you lazy buggers up by

the fighting for a change! That's it, that's it! Now you're doing it

right!'

One soldier, running, slipped in the mud as Basil extended an arm to help

him. 'Thompson, you idiot,' the Sergeant Major encouraged him. 'What if

we were under enemy fire right this moment? You just kept your mates right

under a mortar shell for three seconds too long! They're all dead and it's

your fucking fault! Boom boom!' To emphasise his point, the Sergeant Major

discharged three pistol rounds into the dirt, where Thompson's outline was

pressed into the mud. 'Come on, we've got the little yellow bastards on the

run, and it's time to run them right back to Shanghai!'

Thompson, covered in mud, sat across from Basil. He was clearly shaken by

the Sergeant Major's lesson. 'Chin up,' said Basil. 'Maybe the mortar

shell was off-target, and you saved us from being under it three seconds

later.' He looked at his watch. It was just past four in the morning,

0410. 'Where are we going? Any idea?'

'God knows,' said Thompson. 'They don't tell us privates nothing'.'

'Two hours north is my bet,' said a corporal. 'Makes sense. Get us all

moved in the dark. Daylight's about six. When the sun comes up, that's

where we stop.'

Oh God, Lin Yo, thought Basil. I hope she understands there's nothing I

could have done about this. Maybe I can get word back to her somehow.

Maybe I can get her brought up closer. Closer? To the front? A pregnant

girl? That was mad. Maybe -- Basil felt as though he had been drenched

with cold water. Unbelievably, the ugly word desertion had whispered in the

back of his mind. Get yourself shot for sure, you silly sod. Hide out in

that nameless village? No, no-one would notice you there, towering above

the natives, you'd be spotted from miles away. Either way, never see

England again. Shot dead or hiding in a rice paddy for the next forty

years. With Lin Yo. I'm not thinking clearly, too early. Just have to

hope for the best.

As it happened, the Sergeant Major's announcement was wrong, very wrong.

Their unit was being moved up, right enough, but to reinforce an Australian

regiment which was under heavy assault -- Chinese armoured troops were

making a major push to the south. Fighting was intense, and bloody.

The war ended for Basil three days later. Wounded severely when enemy

forces stormed his unit's position, he was hospitalised, and on his way back

to England before the drugs wore off.

'Craziest thing,' said the American medic who rescued him. 'All the way to

the field hospital he kept saying "linyo, linyo" or something, over and

over.'

The doctor grinned. 'Probably thought it was Chinese for "I surrender".

Basil Fawlty never saw Lin Yo again.

The recollection of Lin Yo was sharp as Basil Fawlty pulled his new red

Austin into the car park of Fawlty Towers. He sat for a moment dazed -- the

drive back from the doctor's office had taken him an hour and a half. He

didn't quite remember where he had been driving, as his mind had wandered in

the past, the delicate features of a teenage girl haunting him, long

banished to dark chambers of his heart, summoned up on this dreary day.

He walked in to the office of Fawlty Towers. God I want a drink, he

thought. Sybil eyed him curiously. He had hardly noticed her.

'Well?' she queried.

Basil let his mind drift back into focus, not quite ignoring his wife, not

fully acknowledging her, either.

'I'm fine,' he stated. Needs more than that, he thought. 'The doctor said

there's nothing wrong with my . . . abilities . . .and that I should be able

to be a father any time I choose. Not in so many words, of course. That's

. . . layman's terms.'

Sybil studied her husband. She usually could tell when he was trying to lie

to her, which was not very often. She didn't think he was lying, but

suspected that he was omitting some important detail. He had a guilty look

about him. She knew Basil like a book.

Sybil Fawlty sat alone in Dr Tashdid's examination room. Further tests had

been run, scrutinised, and reviewed.

Dr Tashdid himself entered and closed the door, sat down on a stool. His

face wore a troubled expression.

'Mrs Fawlty, I've gone over these results twice now, and I'm afraid I must

ask you a rather awkward question, considering a lady of your quality.'

Sybil's eyes clenched shut for a moment, her heart dropped. She knew

already what the question was.

'Mrs Fawlty, have you ever been treated for a -- for what is sometimes

called a "social disease"?'

'Yes,' she whispered, her voice harsh and cracked. 'When I was twenty-four.

It was --'

Dr Tashdid interrupted her. 'It's quite all right Mrs Fawlty, you needn't

explain the circumstances if that would discomfort you. But it seems that

the infection had progressed significantly before you received treatment?'

'Yes,' she whispered again.

'I'm terribly sorry, Mrs Fawlty, but I'm afraid it has left you sterile.'

Eyes still closed, Sybil felt she knew what it must be like to be a

condemned man standing on the gallows, suddenly hearing the soft click of

the trapdoor releasing, about to drop into eternity. She sat very still for

what seemed a very long time.

'I see,' she finally said. 'So that's that, is it?'

'I'm afraid that's all I can do for you, Mrs Fawlty. Medicine has no way of

reversing the damage done.'

'Yes, that's -- I understand, doctor.' There was almost a relief in knowing

that her deepest fear had been realised. At least now, there was no way to

go but up. She left the doctor's presence silently, stumbling in a daze to

the sidewalk. The day was fair, and she had walked. She didn't want even

Audrey with her today. Sybil found her way towards the beaches, and sat on

a bench overlooking the sea.

Those had been hazy days in London that Sybil Fawlty recalled, heady with

her new freedom away from the grim North of home. She had found a solid

position as a secretary with a chartered accountant's firm -- had found it

her first day in the city, and she took it as an omen of a charmed life

ahead. She quickly found a cheap shared flat with another girl, and found

almost as quickly how dull life in an exciting city could be.

Sally, her friend at the office, had intrigued her with stories of the

parties she frequented, and soon Sybil fell in with a group of eccentric

characters -- very Bohemian, freethinking intellectuals -- 'beatniks' they

called themselves.

Sybil attended their parties two or three times a month, and felt finally

that she was really tasting what city life was all about. It was all very

exhilarating and daring -- Picasso, Freud, and Marx were discussed

frequently and enthusiastically. They played American jazz on the

gramophone, and there was even a Cockney boy who played the saxophone

himself when the recorded music grew tiresome. She didn't think much of his

playing. It sounded to her like random notes and squeals randomly blown,

but the others all nodded their heads when he played, and shouted 'Oh yeah!'

, and applauded or snapped their fingers appreciatively, so Sybil did, too.

There was also a lot of talk about bourgeois morality and free love. Quite

a lot about free love. Sybil even tried it, just once. It was with one of

the older fellows: she reasoned that she had nothing to lose that she wouldn't lose someday anyway, and the others all seemed to enjoy the bedhopping,

so why shouldn't she?

Sybil wasn't disappointed with the experience, and found it a pleasant

enough way to spend an evening, but she really didn't understand what all

the fuss was about. After that one time, she declined all further offers

from the boys, and even a couple from the girlsSoon, it was known and

accepted that Sybil was a girl that 'didn't'.

Time passed. Sybil felt fulfilled. Chairman Mao became the new hot topic

of discussion, along with something called a 'Great Leap Forward'. She

pretended to understand and be enthusiastic. A nasal-sounding American

singer named Bob Dylan made his debut on their gramophone, and the beatniks began to talk guardedly of 'The Revolution' that would be coming soon.

Their hair grew incrementally longer. Instead of parties, their gatherings

were now called 'happenings', following the latest American slang. Sybil

began to be bored with the 'happenings' and the beatniks. The Cockney's

saxophone was just as bad, and Sybil occasionally said so. Habit and fear

of deeper boredom kept her around, though. She wondered how many of the

others were maintaining similar pretensions.

One evening in June, the Cockney introduced a new young man to their

'happening'. He was more than a beatnik, he was a 'hipster'.

'Boys and girls, this is Charlie Jones, from Canada. This man is an

honest-to-God Artist, mates.'

Charlie was a painter and sculptor, he had a studio on the banks of Lake

Ontario, outside of Toronto. 'He makes sculptures of the lake,' someone

quipped. He had a growing reputation in Canada, and he was getting ready to shake the London art scene to its roots with his bold and daring work. It

was an honour to have Charlie Jones in that flat tonight, at their

happening. That was the gist of how Charlie was introduced. Sybil was

sceptical. She wondered how much of his reputation was in his fertile

artistic imagination.

Charlie Jones worked the group like a politician, chatting with everyone,

smiling, laughing at every joke. Sybil was disconcerted and a little

flattered when she realised that he kept returning to her. She revised her

original cynical impression of him. He seemed genuinely interested in her.

Perhaps it was because she was the only girl there who still dressed

recognisably as a girl -- the others had all taken to expressing their

freethinking individualism by wearing ragged blue jeans and T-shirts with no

bra.

Charlie Jones emerged from the kitchen with two odd-looking drinks in his

hand. Sybil sipped her modest glass of white wine. 'Sibby, honey, put that

Old-World crap down and try a real drink. Very popular, very American. It'

s called a Manhattan.' He took Sybil's wine glass and replaced it with the

Manhattan.

'It's rather sweet,' she said, after a couple of sips. 'But not bad. So

really, what do you do?'

'I told you, sugar, I'm an artist, and I'm going to be the next big one.

You will remember this night and brag to your buddies ten years from now how

you shared a Manhattan with Charlie Jones his first week in London.'

He rattled on about his work, his studio, how cold it was by Lake Ontario,

and what Philistines the art establishment all were. He was attentive, even

gentlemanly, to Sybil, lighting her cigarettes and refilling her drink. At

one point it seemed to Sybil that he had refilled her glass quite a few

times. The Manhattan in her hand now also didn't seem as sweet as the

first.

Charlie told her another funny story. Someone was laughing quite loudly at

the story, and Sybil was embarrassed to realise it was herself. 'Oh my,'

she said, 'These Manhattans sort of creep up on you, don't they? I think I'

d better sit down.'

'God no, don't sit down, you'll never get up again! You need to step

outside and get some fresh air. This place is really stinkin' of booze and

smoke, ya know.' Charlie guided Sybil through the kitchen toward the back

stairs. She vaguely noticed a liquor bottle on the counter that said

'Bourbon'. It was half empty. A thought tugged in her mind that that

should concern her. 'Besides, sugarplum, I want to talk to you about

something important, something big. I'm gonna make a splash in this town,

you better believe it. But my best work needs knockout models, ya know. Ya

see all those girls in there? Plain, drab, nothings. But you, you honey,

you've got that something, ya know what I mean? You are really beautiful, I

mean classical, Greek goddess beautiful. I want you to model for me kiddo.

Believe me, it'll make us both famous, I mean capital F Famous.'

His monologue had carried them down and outside into the night air, into the

empty lot that served as a car park for the surrounding flats. Sybil's head

was spinning. Me? she thought. Maybe that's why he was so interested.

They walked slowly back and forth through the cars. 'Wow,' Sybil said.

'Really, me?' Her thoughts were disjointed, and she couldn't think of

anything else. She reached into her purse and fished out a cigarette.

'Hey baby, don't waste your lungs on that cheap shit. Here, have one of

mine.' Charlie produced a small cigarette case, and extracted an unfiltered

cigarette, hand-rolled 'Real Virginia burley, this is, I get it special

from friends down in the States. Hey, your hands are shaking, let me light

it up for you.' He put the cigarette to his own lips, lit it, and inhaled

deeply. He let the smoke drift lazily from his mouth. 'Here ya go,

sweetheart. Enjoy.'

Sybil sucked greedily at the cigarette. The smoke was rough, and made her

cough. She took a few more puffs. There was an odd, sweetish undertaste to the tobacco that she didn't like. Charlie watched her. He borrowed the

cigarette back at one point and took another long puff himself.

Suddenly, Sybil felt terribly giddy. Light-headed. She started to take a

step forward, looked down at the ground, and stopped.

'You OK, Sibby honey?'

'There's a rock in the way.'

'It's OK, baby, just step over it.'

She looked again. Of course. Step over it. Why had that flustered her so?

She stepped, and the thought of the rock in her way made her start giggling.

Charlie put his arm all the way around her waist and helped her walk.

'Maybe you do need to sit down for a minute, sweetheart. I wouldn't want

you to fall and skin your face, because it is just so beautiful. Here, my

car's right here.'

'What is that?' Sybil was looking at an odd vehicle that made her think of

a loaf of bread on wheels. That made her giggle, too.

'It's a Volkswagen, Sibby. Latest thing. All the rage in America.'

'I thought those were little cars, like Minis.'

'No, this is a new thing. Nice and big. Here, look at this.' Charlie

pulled a handle and two doors opened out, like the back of a tradesman's

van. 'Here, get up on the seat.' He helped boost her up into the car, one

hand straying to the back of her thigh to push her in. Sybil collapsed on

the seat, and tipped over sideways.

'Oh dear,' she said.

'You're fine, honey, you're fine, and you're just so gorgeous I can't

believe it. I can't wait to paint these beautiful legs of yours.' His

hands fell to her knees, and stroked her calves. His face was near hers,

and she suddenly felt his lips pressing against her own. 'Beautiful legs.'

His fingers were making fluttering motions up and down her thighs.

Sybil worried that he would snag her new nylon stockings, but his fingers

tickled nicely. She thought it felt like mice running up and down her

thighs. That struck her as terribly funny, and she laughed aloud.

'Hickory Dickory Docking, A mouse ran up my stocking,' she said

spontaneously; that was hysterically funny, and she laughed even harder.

The mice were running all over her body now, it felt like, around her neck,

on her arms, across her breasts. A light breeze wafted in through the door

of the little bus, and Sybil thought it felt like a waterfall across her

skin. The waterfall was very strong; it had pushed her skirt up around her

belly.

Suddenly, the mice were fingers again, and she felt the fingers pulling at

the elastic waistband of her knickers.

Charlie was talking, and it seemed as if she could see the words floating

from his mouth, down by her knees, up to her ears. 'Sibby, baby, honey, you

are just so beautiful, I've got to see you like this. It's so long since I'

ve been with a real pretty girl like you, lemme look at you baby. Come on,

lemme see it, lemme touch it just once, OK?' There was more, but it wasn't

making much sense to Sybil any more.

The breeze was a waterfall again, very strong, and it washed away her

knickers, taking a shoe with them. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the feel

of the waterfall cascading around her thighs.

Charlie manoeuvred her down flat on the seat, one ankle up over the back of

the seat. She thought the remaining shoe on that foot looked strange up

there, like a balloonbut it wasn't funny any more.

Charlie moved, and was stretched out on top of Sybil. She was suddenly

aware that his breath stank of liquor and tobacco, and it was very

unpleasant. She heard the sound of a zip, and didn't understand. I don't

have any zips in my clothes, she thought.

Then she felt the full weight of Charlie on her, and she understood. His

breath stank in her face, his body was weighing heavily on her stomach, and

his hips were wriggling against hers. More free love, thought Sybil, and

didn't care enough to resist.

With Charlie's breath in her face, and the clumsy motion against her belly

full of cheap bourbon, Sybil's insides revolted. A sour taste tided in the

back of her throat, and her stomach was clenching. She rolled out from

under the artist, onto the floor, and crawled toward the open door. She

pushed herself up on hands and knees, got her head out the door, and began

vomiting copiously into the untidy grass of the lot.

Sybil heard Charlie moving behind her. He threw the hem of her skirt up

over her back, and wrapped his arms around her beautiful thighs. Sybil

continued vomiting sporadically, emptying the dregs of her stomach, as

Charlie entered her. Her fingers clung to the bottom edge of the doorframe,

thinking only not to be pushed out into the very ugly mess in the grass.

Charlie heaved erratically, voicing a single low groan. Fuck free love

anyway, thought Sybil. There was moment of blankness, and she saw Charlie

trotting away, back to the flat.

Inside, at the happening, Charlie approached the Cockney saxophone player.

'My game, pal. Boffed the Ice Princess before she passed out.' He held out

his hand. The Cockney shook his head admiringly, and slapped a five pound

note in Charlie's hand. 'I tell ya, London's gonna make me rich.'

'Nothin' but an old piss-artist, you are, mate,' said the Cockney. The art

world, of course, had never heard of Charlie Jones, and never would.

Sybil awoke in an agony of hangover. She didn't recognise her own room, at

first. Her last clear recollection was seeing a half empty bottle of

liquor. She didn't remember getting home. She stumbled out of bed, saw she

was still dressed in yesterday's clothes, and staggered toward the loo.

When she lifted her skirt to sit, she noticed her missing knickers and the

finger-shaped bruises on her thighs. She remembered then, and began

vomiting again, all over the floor.

She cut the beatnik scene dead. She thought of Sally at the office, and

never went back, not even for the last pay packet. Sybil found a new job

shortly, in a mill. Her first panicked concern was eased four days later

when what her mother had coyly called her 'little visitor' arrived right on

schedule.

Two weeks later, though, she woke in the middle of the night, screaming in

agony for doctors and Mummy. Nancy, her flatmate, called for the ambulance

right away.

The hospital's immediate diagnosis was appendicitis, but after Sybil was

sedated and the surgeon had a closer look, syphilis was evident. There was

an immediate round of injections -- the new wonder drug, penicillin -- and

pills of the same to follow up for a month. The doctors said at the time,

that was the end of it, she was a fortunate young lady not to have been

blinded, or worse. They gave her a lecture on taking care of oneself, and

handed her a pamphlet entitled 'An Ounce Of Prevention. . . .' that provided

embarrassingly explicit drawings of men's and women's body parts, and

diagrammed the use of prophylactics.

And that was that. Until today.

Sybil Fawlty shifted her position on the uncomfortable wooden slats of the

park bench. I feel old, she thought, and stretched her arms out across the

back of the bench.

Despite the season, a young couple were shuffling their way across the sand

below. The man carried a little girl, perhaps a year old.

Sybil stared, and casually stretched her legs out straight, ankles primly

crossed. Her hands tightened into fists, manicured fingernails biting into

her palms.

The man on the beach stopped, and knelt down. The woman stood a yard or so

away. The man set the little girl on her feet, and she stood wobbling in

the sand. The woman knelt, too, and reached out her arms. The little girl

stared for a moment, and staggered across the sand to her mother, golden

hair flying like a banner. The man and woman applauded, and the woman

caught her up, stood up with her child, and spun joyously on her toes.

Grief lanced Sybil through the heart. She looked up to the cold grey sky.

'Oh, Daddy,' she whispered. 'I'm so sorry.' Her head lolled sideways onto

her shoulder. Sybil wept.

Sybil made her way back to Fawlty Towers some hours later. It was about

dinner time, and there was a bustle about the hotel that left no time for

questions or explanations. Or, for that matter, thought. She trotted

between kitchen and dining room, dining room and guest account ledger,

dining room and bar. Busy, busy, busy.

Basil once cast an inquiring look at her, but her expression was icy, and

Basil knew that she would talk when The Time Was Right. He too kept himself occupied with the business of the hotel, late into the evening, after the guests had dispersed, and only then recalled seeing Sybil head up the stairs some time earlier. He locked the bar, and headed upstairs.

'Evening, Sybil.'

'Good evening Basil.'

The curtain was drawn, and Sybil had left the lamp with the rosy-warm shade

burning, casting its intimate warmth upon the bedroom. Basil stepped into

the lavatory, took a quick shower, and changed into pyjamas. As he slipped

beneath the blankets, he was somewhat startled to find that Sybil was naked.

'Basil, I'm chilly,' she said.

He wrapped one arm around her shoulders, and pulled her close. As he looked

down, he saw instead delicate Oriental features: skin so yellow it was

almost orange; small, tight, breasts. I don't want to think about you now,

he silently whispered to Lin Yo. Still, her narrow eyes gazed into him, not

with anger or reproach, only bewilderment. What happen to you, Ba-so? she

pleaded.

Are you still there, somewhere, really? Basil thought. Did you survive the

war? Did the baby -- our baby -- live? Is there even now a Korean teenager

stumbling through rice paddies, taller by half than anyone in his village,

with incomprehensible dreams of a peaceful green land, where the people grow tall and the cattle grow fat? Or a girl, enduring a more-than-usually

awkward adolescence, with long, gangling arms, and an unknown grandmother's red hair? Please, God, Lin Yo, I didn't mean for it to be like this. But there's nothing I can do about it now. Basil closed his eyes and let the anguish wash through him, almost revelling in the exquisite pain.

Sybil looked up at Basil, his eyes closed. My poor darling, you must be so

tired, she thought. You've always tried to be so good to me. Free love, she

mused. You get what you pay for. She caressed his immobile face. With

you, it hasn't been easy, but it's been worth it, she thought. There's

really only that one thing in my life I'd go back and change, if I could.

Sybil flashed on a hazy face, a weasel-like face seen through a drunken

stupor. The surge of hate through her soul surprised and frightened her.

And if I could, you no-good bastard, I'd hunt you down and murder you in

your sleep. But I can't do either, I just wish I could cast out the memory

of you, cast it down to the bottom of Hell. Basil, my Basil, how do I tell

you? What do I tell you? Could you understand this lifetime of regret?

Basil opened his eyes. 'So, Sybil, what did the doctor tell you?'

Sybil regarded her husband calmly, with large eyes of innocence. 'He said

we just have to keep trying.' She took his hand, cupped it on her breast.

She wanted him desperately, wanted him to exorcise with violent passion that

other presence that haunted her. Her hand then reached under the sheets to

coax him.

He closed his eyes again, and sighed. 'Not tonight, dear. I have a

headache,' said Basil Fawlty.


End file.
